Why Are You Doing This?
by sehen
Summary: Fisrt fic ever. Takes place after The Great Game. Sherlock is trying to cope with the loss of John in his own way. Story is a lot better than the summary. Rated T for subtle drug use.


_Why are you doing this?_ John's voice crept easily into Sherlock's mind.

"Because I'm bored. Life is boring, John, especially when there's nothing left in it," Sherlock regarded the syringe he'd been holding with stern eyes. Then he waited for John's voice to come back.

When there was nothing he placed the needle's tip at one of his veins. He sucked in his breath as he anticipated the strange haze that would soon wash over him. The ability to be numb to the world was something Sherlock had grown to look forward to.

_This is stupid, Sherlock, and I forbid you from doing it._

"You're dead," Sherlock said bluntly.

There was no sort of retort from John because, of course, hewas dead. That was a fact and it seemed to tear the detective a part. His one true friend, his best friend was gone and he couldn't change that. He couldn't have changed it.

Sherlock's thoughts wondered back to the night weeks ago at the pool. John's body crumpled on the floor surrounded by a pool of thick dark red.

He remembered rushing towards John and somehow knowing that he was too late. He remembered John's face looking up at him. His warm eyes were, for the very first time, vacant and cold. His skin was becoming paler by the second.

That wasn't his John staring back at him he had thought. No it couldn't be him. This John was cold and unmoving. This John was gone. He was no longer Sherlock's, not that he was ever really his.

Tears burned behind Sherlock's eyes, but he refused to let them fall.

"It should've been me," he muttered to himself.

John's voice came back again, _No, it shouldn't have been. And I wish you'd stop thinking like that. You don't realize how much you're needed down there._

"But, I need _you_."

_Sherlock, no you don't. You'd made it without me before and you can make it without me now._

Sherlock shook his head and laughed lightly. "Made it before you? John, you're kidding, right?"

There was no response and Sherlock was again considering the syringe in his hands. Since John's death this had become a usual every other night or so. Having feelings was incredibly trying for Sherlock. He didn't exactly like them. They hurt too much. It felt unnatural.

Was that how regular people felt all the time? Plagued by all sorts of emotions that constantly sent them spiraling out of control.

He hated how he felt since John came into his life. Since the doctor's appearance Sherlock's shell had begun to break bit by bit. This steeliness he felt towards the world seemed to melt slightly. He found himself trying to feel empathetic for the people in some of the cases they'd worked on. It seemed he thought with his heart too sometimes. When John was around he'd always worried that something would happen to the doctor that he wouldn't be able to fix.

That unknowingness scared Sherlock more than he'd ever admit to anyone. John didn't even know he felt that way when he was with him.

"John, I'm sorry," he said. "I'm sorry it ended like this for you. It was careless of me and I should've been more aware of everything. Should've figured out Moriarty's plan. You should still be alive right now."

_Please, Sherlock, don't do this to yourself. It wasn't your fault and I can't have you blaming yourself for it._

"You're the better man, though. When it came down to it you were a _far _better man than you ever gave yourself credit for."

_Well, not all of us are as humble as you are_, John's voice laughed.

Sherlock found himself laughing easily again for the first time in weeks. Then he realized that John still wasn't there and the laughing had ceased.

The flat was quiet again. There was nothing there except a broken man.

Sherlock reveled in the silence playing with the syringe once more. He stuck the needle in his forearm and hesitated slightly.

_Please don't. For me, Sherlock, please,_ John's voice was pleading with him.

"I love you." Sherlock said his voice barely above a whisper. He only wished these words had been said when John was still alive. Maybe then this grieving wouldn't be as painful.

_I love you, too. More than I think you'll ever know, Sherlock._

And with those last words he couldn't handle it anymore. His thumb pressed down on the syringe and his body began to slow. The surrounding hazed a bit and the numbness began to take over.

-x-

Sherlock awoke the next morning with Mycroft standing over him with a disapproving sneer on his lips. There was concern in his eyes though as he looked down at his younger brother's tear streaked face. This wasn't the first time he'd found Sherlock like this.

Mycroft expressed his concerns, but Sherlock dismissed them.

"This isn't healthy what you're doing."

"I could care less what you think Mycroft and you know that. I don't see why you even waste your time anymore," Sherlock turned his back towards his brother willing him to leave.

Mycroft knew there was no use in trying to change his brother's ways, but he'd keep trying just so he knew someone here did in fact care about him.

He left without a single word.

When Sherlock turned back around he found that the syringe and its container were gone. He would worry about that another night when the urge would take him over again.

For now though he thought about John's voice the previous night telling him that he loved him. And that single bit of reassurance was enough to pull him through another day.

* * *

Hope you liked it. This is my very first fanfic I've ever made. So, that means I'd love some feedback on this baby. Please, I'd love some constructive criticism. :D


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